


Where the forgotten things live

by SpaceBetweenHeartbeats



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Inspired by The Witcher, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24407110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceBetweenHeartbeats/pseuds/SpaceBetweenHeartbeats
Summary: In the dark corners of the forest, where the ancient, forgotten things live, a Witcher has a taste of happiness.Or, flowery yet unrepentant smut.
Relationships: Eskel (The Witcher)/Original Character(s), Eskel (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s), Eskel (The Witcher)/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 52





	Where the forgotten things live

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome constructive criticism but this is my first fic so please be understanding. Also, have not had it beta read...oops

My bones ached and my fingers were stiff with cold as I tried to coax the kindling to life in the grate, desperate to stave off the late Autumn chill. A querulous mew from the elderly grey cat at my feet reminded me that I was remiss in my petting duties and I begrudgingly attempted to build the fire with one hand whilst stroking the soft fur of my favourite furry monster with the other. She and I were old friends, having inveigled her way into my home all those years ago, a tiny ball of smokey fur and endless appetite.

"Alright dear heart, I shall bring us both some fish back from the river and we shall break our fast together." I drop a kiss on to her warm little head before rising, throwing on my well-worn travel cloak and grabbing the fishing spear before heading out of the door.

A hard frost in the night has painted the ground silver and the thin morning light trickling through the skeletal trees gives the forest an otherworldly feeling. The woods are shrouded in silence, broken only by the snap of twigs underfoot, the gentle swish of my skirts or the shrill cries of birds. It isn't far to the river but I am ruddy cheeked with cold by the time I make it to the banks. Shucking off my boots and stockings, I wrap my skirts through my legs and around my waist before wading into the dark water.

 _Melitele's tits_ _it is cold_ and it steals the air from my lungs with a faint gasp. The river runs in inky black perfection with only the occasional flash of silver to alert my keen eyes to the gilled treasure within. The rocks are slick and slippery with waterweed but I am no novice girl and the spear flies swiftly in and out of the water. After two hours in the icy water, my hands are almost blue with cold but the yield is five large river trout and a small bream, enough to last a few days at least until I am brave enough to chance the river again. The summer's profits are all but gone, spent on fixing the leaky roof. A thatcher, passing through on his way to a wedding had charged me a hefty fee and I paid the coin with a heavy heart, knowing I could not rely upon the services of the craftsmen in the town.

I know what they say about me, a woman, painted up like a she-elf - unmarried and living alone in the depths of the forest. They speak in sly whispers at the market stalls, their eyes sliding over my retreating frame, smiles disappearing faster than morning dew, others make signs against the evil eye behind my back that they think I cannot see. Unnatural they call me, amongst other things; those less inclined towards kindness call me a witch but still they come, furtively seeking out the cures I dispense, for mine are the best salves and elixirs and unlike the apothecary, I have discretion.

Perhaps I will sell the last of my tinctures for a large skein of wool to make a blanket and take the chill from my bed. It is a solitary existence and it has been some years since I warmed my bed with a lover but a thick woollen blanket would suffice in place of any of the empty headed fools who passed for men this side of the Yaruga.

I bend over and pull on my damp stockings, cursing to myself as my numb fingers struggle to tie the laces of my boots. The raucous staccato cry of magpies cuts through the heavy silence of the forest, followed by the snap of a twig. It is close to winter, there is no need for anyone to venture this deep into the woods. I try to dismiss it, but it creeps under my flesh, seeps into my worst fears and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle _. It is nothing,_ I tell myself, _just the music of the forest_. I continue to lace my boots, fingers uncoordinated and graceless, trying to ignore the roar of blood in my ears, the rapid tattoo of my heartbeat. A howl of pain and fury rips from the tree line to the right, startling me and in my haste to stand up, I see a large man standing over the sagging carcass of a beast impaled on a bright sword before pain blooms behind my eyes and the world goes black.

A sensation of the earth shifting once more on its axis followed by a splitting headache forces my eyes open once more. Blinking and bleary eyed I find myself almost six feet up in the air, staring into the liquid gold eyes of an enormous man. A heartbeat passes before I notice the livid raised red scars that bisect the corner of his right eye and extend down his face curling his upper lip into a permanent grimace.

He sees me staring and his shoulders sag. Immediately, and with a grace that belies his large stature, he sets me down on the forest floor as delicately and reverently as if he were handling fine china. His voice is a rough rasp, but his tone is gentle as he stutters and stumbles out his apologies, hand rubbing the scars on his face.

"M...mm.. my lady, I must beg your pardon, I did not mean to startle you. "

I thread my fingers through my hair, wincing slightly as they brush the lump on my tender scalp. "Ugggh gods my head. What happened and where are my fish?"

The man squats, head bowed slightly, his palms outstretched in a placatory gesture.  
"I was tracking a warg _, I…..fuc..._ I startled you and you hit your head my lady." He looks flustered but I let him stutter on, raising an eyebrow, intrigued to hear his explanation.

"I was taking you to the cottage in the woods. I have heard a healer lives there. I.. _shit.._.I mean you no harm."

I cast a glance around the woodland floor before lifting my gaze to his face. His eyes are amber and cat like, pupils slightly dilated in the murky morning light. His cheeks are flushed a high pink _with embarrassment?_ _Surely not?_ I put it from my mind, perhaps it is the exertion of carrying me through the woods, for I am no frail maiden but a woman of some thirty odd years and well made to boot.

His visage, though badly scarred is still handsome though, his chestnut hair slipping from its tie to fall over his cheekbone lends him a boyish air despite the breadth of his chest and the size of his forearms. His manner jars me, it has a fragile sweetness to it, so at odds with his physicality that I find the words tumbling from my mouth before I can stop them.

"You are kind...Sir….witcher? You are a witcher, are you not? I must thank you for coming to my aid. Perhaps I can offer you something in return"

 _Oh gods, swallow me whole, I sound like a tavern whore_. Clearing my throat I begin again, "I mean, that is to say that I can offer something to eat and a place to get warm. You must be frozen,"

He shifts a little on on the balls of his feet, the leather of his breeches creaking. "Lady, I am no knight, you need not call me Sir but you are correct, I am a witcher....a mutant. I thank you for your generous offer but I do not feel the elements as you do. I will escort you to your home and be on my way". He mutters the word mutant with distaste, and flushes, once more casting his eyes down, his broad frame curling in on itself.

"I apologise if I gave offence Witcher, there was none meant, I merely wanted to show some appreciation for your kindness. Perhaps I might know the name of my rescuer?"

He looks up at me in surprise and I feel in an instant his loneliness and his pride. Perhaps the townsfolk who treat me with suspicion have also turned their quicksilver cruelty towards him?

"Will you not at least take a small meal with me? I'm sure even witchers get hungry." I attempt a smile at him, a small smile that makes my eyes twinkle, stretching out my hand and resting it lightly on his forearm. He flinches slightly with a sudden skittishness and I withdraw my hand, ashamed to have made him uncomfortable.

I make an attempt at smoothing out invisible wrinkles in my skirts and stand up but lightheadedness makes me sway and his grip is strong and warm as he helps me to my feet, for just a second his strong hands linger at my waist before he steps a respectful distance away.

"Eskel, my lady. My name is Eskel," he says his name in a rush of breath and if I didn't know better I would wager he was unused to being in the company of women but he is polite, albeit supremely awkward, and it has been a long time since anyone has spoken more than five or six words to me. Perhaps the company would do me good.

"Well met Eskel," I say with smile. "Tell me, when you are not tending to clumsy women in the woods, do you like breakfast?" he huffs a small laugh out at my persistence but grunts his assent.

Having retrieved the fish and his horse, the two of us make our way through the forest, he is not a garrulous man by nature but his face is open and attentive as I chatter on, unused to company. We reach the clearing where my home stands, all rough hewn stone and wild vines. I catch myself in a small snigger as I notice the confusion on Eskel's face as it registers that the healer's cottage is in fact my home. He pauses at the low doorway of the cottage, as if unsure as to the sincerity of the offer of warmth and food but I pay him no mind, desperate to be out of the cold, I merely take his hand and gently usher him inside. If he minds, he doesn't show it but he does take my cold fingertips and raise them to his lips gently blowing on them to warm them. His molten eyes meet mine, his dark hair brushing his cheek and I am overwhelmed with the tenderness of his gesture. I find myself wanting only to reach out and brush the stray hair behind his ear. A subtle flicker of something intangible passes between us, a brief promise of pleasure, but the cat winds her way between my legs protesting loudly at some perceived offence and the moment is gone, little more than a distant ripple in a pond.

"Forgive me, you are cold."

"It's quite alright, really. Nothing to apologise for. There's ale in the jug on the table or I can make tea if you prefer?" I keep my voice light, despite the quick thrum of my pulse. I turn on my heel and scoop up the offending moggy, depositing her on a large worn chair near the window, and rub my hands together, shivering slightly.

The fire is little more than glowing embers in the grate, all substantive heat long since dissipated. Eskel places a few logs in the grate, stoops and makes a gesture with his fingers. The fire roars to life and I make a small squeal of excitement at the prospect of warmth. _Igni_ he calls it, eyes downcast and wary. I am delighted and effusive in my admiration and slowly, tentatively, he blossoms under the warm sun of my praise, content to sit on the periphery of my joy.

I hum to myself as I prepare the fish, saving a few tasty morsels for the cat. I bustle around the kitchen adding spices, preparing small cakes with the last of the summer honey. Eskel's eyes widen at the large plate of fish and fried potatoes I set down before us on the table. I know the ale is strong and warming and gods it has been an age since I last fed a guest a hot meal but my heart sinks as I look around the cottage, as I know the coming winter will be hard and I have precious little to share.

He is pleasant company, despite his intimidating appearance and I allow myself to fill the room with chatter and questions. His voice is rich and low like smoke and molasses, he plays down his exploits with the beasts he hunts with wry good humour and allows himself the ghost of a smile as I tell him of my numerous failed attempts to fix the stable door and my battles with small flock of pygmy goats I tend, led by perhaps the naughtiest goat on the Continent, the eponymous L'il Bleater. I've always liked my clever hands and I watch myself weave my stories, infuse them with life by my gestures. The ale flows freely and I occasionally graze his fingertips as I reach for the jug to refill his cup until I find it empty.

The watery morning light has bled into the brightness of early afternoon and I know he will soon be on his way back through the dark woods, seeking coin and monsters to slay. The prospect of the long dark winter without such good company looms bleak on the horizon.

"Where will you go next Eskel?" I ask, forcing a lightness into my voice that I do not feel. "Surely you cannot work through the winter? The snows will be upon us soon."

He doesn't smile back. Once again, he checks himself, the warmth draining from his feline eyes. The thought of nights spent on hard ground, with stale food and the endless contempt of strangers he seeks to help sits hollow in his stomach but he knows better than to outstay his welcome.

"Kaer Morhen, to winter with my brothers. It is not too far from here. I will be gone before nightfall."

Eskel rises from the table and inclines his head in a brief bow. I grasp at once my mistake, I am clumsy and inept in my haste to feign an indifference I do not feel, and I have made him feel unwelcome. An outcast. Perhaps it is the ale, but hastily I rise to meet him, closing the gap between us until I am all but flush with his chest.

He doesn't step back but he eyes me warily as I stand on my tip toes and press my lips to his scarred cheek in silent apology.  
"I'm sorry, please stay," I mumble into the puckered skin and I hear his breath hitch in his throat. Pressing my advantage I smooth the stray strands of hair from his eyes and he leans into my touch, broad shoulders relaxing just for a second. His large hand cups my own before gently removing it from his face. Shame seals my mouth and I retreat to the safety of clearing the pots, face burning with mortification.

His footsteps are near silent, I do not sense him until I hear the rumble of his voice behind me, speaking my name, breath ghosting over my ear as I wash the pots.

"You cannot want this, surely there are better men. I am every mother's cautionary tale brought to life, ….I'm a monster."

He is letting me down gently, a kindness I perhaps do not deserve. I kissed him, unbidden, and exposed myself raw and needy to him. The taste of it is ashes in my mouth. Gods but I still have some pride at least and I will not suffer his attempts at pity. I round on him in a last ditched attempt at salvaging the shreds of my self respect, my voice tight and choked. He must smell the sharp tang of my humiliation and recoils as if struck.

"I accept that I am perhaps a poor alternative to your usual lovers but I do not need you to let me down gently. Do not mock me by imagining that I see you as anything but a kind and handsome man, I deserve no such cruelty from you"

I watch comprehension dawn on Eskel's features as he splutters his disbelief. "I…..shit...I have no lovers, truly....I do not mock you, but you cannot want this." He rubs his hand across his scars, flinches as though burned by their memory and yet, he moves half a step closer, eyes scanning my face for signs of disgust or fear. He is close enough that I can see the callouses on his large hands, the way his sculpted muscles of his thighs strain against the the leather of his breeches and I swallow involuntarily at the thought of coming undone under his touch.

Heat pools in my lower abdomen and my pulse shifts pace, quickening and flushing my cheeks with a rosy glow. He stops in his tracks and cautiously leans in closer because this doesn't smell like embarrassment any more, this smells like .. _oh._

I try my luck again and press my lips against his, cupping his face between my hands in an effort to convey my want. Pupils blown wide he registers my arousal and meets my lips with his own, gently at first and then sweetly insistent as he explores my mouth with his tongue, thick fingers weaving through the cloud of my bright hair. His mouth is soft and warm and he kisses me deliberately, with an unhurried grace that is at once both enticing and infuriating. When I break apart I nip at his lower lip and he lets out a low growl that steals all coherent thoughts from my mind and floods me with desire, slick and hot.

I try to memorise his face, desperate to imprint his features in my mind's eye, for it is known that witchers never stray far from their path and who knows if our paths will cross again. My fingers trace the set of the lines around his eyes and mouth that speak of hardship and want, rubbing the pad of my thumb across the heavy scars that radiate like a sunburst down the side of his face and he stiffens under my touch, but doesn't pull away, eyes pleading as I trace the dark furrows to the corner of his mouth. I know better than to ask how he came by them, for there is still something of the wild about this graceful, scarred creature, instead I settle for swiping the pad of my errant digit across his mouth, as lush and full as my own before pulling him back to my lips for another kiss.

He groans into the kiss and pursues it diligently, ardently, igniting a slow sweet burn in my body as he patiently pulls me apart. His kisses stray down the sensitive skin of my neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. I catch myself wondering that for a man well versed in violence, he is surprisingly gentle but his voice rasps praises into my ear with a fervour that is anything but tame. Pulling me on to his lap, his fingers make swift work of my bodice and he palms at my ample breast, feels its heft in his hand before cupping it to his lips and sucking, hard. My back arches and my toes curl. I rock my centre against the growing bulge in his breeches, slick with desire but here, in the wash of the shifting afternoon light there is no time for self consciousness as I palm at his clothes, desperate to explore his body. A low chuckle escapes his throat as I fumble at the laces of his breeches and he pulls back slightly, "Patience", he admonishes, his voice husky. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and another under my knees lifting me into his arms, the movement is lithe and fluid and I cannot help but notice the play of his muscles under those layers of clothing as carries me to the low bed at the back of the room.

It is no delicate thing, this current between us drawing our bodies closer, licking sparks between my thighs. I ache against the ministrations of his tongue. Nipples, pebble-peaked and puffy, lips pink and swollen, hair tangled, I am incandescent to him, a living glowing ember. He divests me of my clothing, slowly, methodically, each new expanse of skin treated like finest silk beneath his hands, his eyes never leaving mine, savouring my pleasure as his own. A solitary bead of sweat trickles down the nape of my neck and I shiver despite the heat of my own skin.

"Too many clothes," I pant, stripping him awkwardly, hurriedly, the deft gestures of my kitchen storytelling all but forgotten, ripping his shirt in my haste to admire him.

Truth be told, he could be hewn from granite, for he is a hulking, muscular thing, shaped by years of training and discipline. The broad planes of his chest are dusted with soft dark hairs and riven with scars and they glint faintly in the warm glow of firelight. Oh how I long to spend an eternity tracing each scar with my lips. I press a palm to his chest, skimming the contours before capturing his lips again briefly, but he is a determined, insistent lover, pushing me back into the bed he kisses down the soft curve of my stomach, whispering my praises like prayers into my skin, presses his nose at the apex of my thighs and worships at the altar of my cunt.

He licks a stripe from my cleft to my clit that arches my back and leaves me near breathless. Exposed and vulnerable in my pleasure, I seek to coax him away from my sex, pink and embarrassed, for this is not the way I am used to being dealt with by the handful of lovers that have crossed my threshold. He pauses and says nothing, locking those molten gold eyes on mine, watching the blush creep down my body to my toes. The silence stretches before me, taut as a bowstring until I find a voice quite unlike my own springing from my throat, "You don't have to, you know...that is, don't feel obliged…," the words trail away, hanging in the void and I sit mute until he speaks again.

"Do you want me to stop? Do you not enjoy this?" his brow creases, a flash of concern in his eyes and I force myself to exhale steadily.

"It is not something I am accustomed to, Eskel," my voice quiet, "I like it very much but I cannot see how it can…how you can…."

He regards me, his gaze unwavering. He takes in my flushed face, the thin sheen of sweat on my skin, he watches me glow as if lit from within and props himself languidly on one elbow, begins kissing the soft skin of my thighs, inching closer to the sodden heat of my cunt. His breath is warm on the soft curls that decorate my mound and he punctuates each press of his lips with a growl about how soft my skin is, how good I smell to him, how sweet I taste before silently seeking permission to continue and I am transfixed, mutely nodding my assent as he splays his palm across my abdomen to anchor me and feasts on my sex as a man starving.

He spreads me out like a ripe fig, gently nudging my legs apart and licks between each fold seeking the nectar of my arousal, devouring me with his tongue before shifting his attention to my clit, laving and sucking at it with his wickedly clever mouth. He circles and teases the rough pad of his finger over the tiny bundle of nerves before deftly slipping it inside and pumping it before adding another, crooking them towards him and I gasp and lace my fingers tightly to the crown of his head savouring the sensation of the writhing, churning flood of my building orgasm.

The feel of my fingers in his hair and my low moans seem to spur him on, for he makes a tight seam between his mouth and my swollen clit gradually increasing the pressure of his mouth as he sucks and I feel a long forgotten fire lick through my veins. Breathless, I offer up his name to the gods like an amulet but he pushes me on riding the shockwaves of my climax until I am trembling and boneless.

He moves back up my body, face slick with my come. He looks at me in wonder, an acolyte worshipping at the shrine of my body and I taste myself on his lips and tongue and groan into his mouth, snaking my hands across the constellation of scars that criss cross his back. My legs are strong and I try to flip him on to his back so that I might better map his body but I might as well try to shift a mountain and he curls his lip in amusement but acquiesces and lets me straddle him, palming my breasts, skimming his fingers over my waist. I kiss my way to his breeches, slipping them over his narrow hips and curve of his arse, watching the slight bob of his cock as it springs loose, flushed and erect.

It is glistening, slightly sticky with pre come, he gasps as I run a finger over the tip and bring my finger to my kiss bitten lips, tongue flicking out to taste him. His eyes are almost black, irises thin rings of gold around the twin moons of his pupils. I thread my fingers of my left hand through his and wrap my right hand around his length. I lick a generous stripe from base to tip, pressing a kiss to the ridged underside of his cock before slowly taking him into my throat. Eskel lets out a strangled moan, his thighs, corded with muscle flex and he fists the sheet beneath his open palm as he sees me looking up at him through my lashes, my mouth full of his cock.

His cock lies heavy and twitching on my tongue and I savour the weight and taste of him in my mouth, slowly bobbing my head to sheathe his shaft in the wet heat of my mouth, circling the very root of it in my hand when I can take no more. I take my time, swirling my tongue around his cock head before releasing him with a soft pop of my lips.

His head is thrown back, exposing the lines of his throat, a patch of dark stubble he has missed whilst shaving prominent along the underside of his jawline.  
"Oh fuck don't stop please". His voice is little more than a broken moan, his knuckles whitening as I cup his balls and feel them tighten momentarily in my hands. I relent, running kisses up the of his velvety cock before humming in satisfaction and surrendering him once more to the embrace of my throat. I want him to understand how thoroughly I desire him, to pull him apart and remake him as he has done with me. The sounds I make are lewd as I hollow my cheeks and increase to a pace that leaves him writhing beneath me, allowing him to teeter on the edge of his orgasm yet denying him. My thighs are slippery and coated with my desire and I clench involuntarily, my cunt aching with need.

"Gods... fuck...I can smell you. You smell so...good." His breath comes in short pants, nostrils flaring, his eyes wide and wild. "Need to be..in..inside you."

A thrill ripples through me that I could wield such power over him but I comply with an insouciant shrug. He shifts me higher on him, pulls me into a searing kiss, licking into my mouth, devouring me. His cock nestles at the juncture of my thighs, pulsing and thick. I shudder in anticipation and bite my lip.

A swift shift in the delicate power balance between us and I am once more his prey, caged in the embrace of his arms. An involuntary cant of my hips catches us both by surprise, leaves me squirming and needy.

His mouth captures my nipple, tugs it with his teeth. I gasp caught in the twin spikes of pleasure and pain and he smiles at me shyly, looks almost apologetic as his hand slides between my legs, coating his cock in my slick, brushing my clit, and snatching a desperate whine of frustration from my lips. He glances down and guides himself to my entrance, breaching me langourous and slow. I pant at the sweet stretch, the burn that gives way to a deep ripple of pleasure, eyes fluttering closed. He sheathes himself deep in the clutch of my cunt and I am full beyond my imaginings

He hisses and stills as he adjusts to the velvet cling of my walls, his eyes finding mine again as if seeking to fix my face in his memory and I wonder whether I will be preserved in the weight of his dark honeyed gaze like a dragonfly trapped in amber.

I hook my legs around him, rock my hips up to meet him and he takes the hint and begins to move torturously slow at first, savouring my breathy moans.  
His jaw clenches, he grits out an incredulous rasp "fuck...you feel so tight"  
I sink my nails in to his muscular back, "Move….please", I plead and his pupils grow wide and dark as he rolls and snaps his hips, fucking me into the mattress.  
My breasts bounce with the force of each thrust but I am grown greedy in my pursuit of pleasure and I urge him on, my broken moans a symphony of unfettered wantonness in his ear.

He pulls almost all the way out and then snaps his hips forward, snatching the air from my lungs. I meet each movement of his with my own as I writhe and undulate beneath him, grasping the firm flesh of his arse. He slides his arm beneath me, tilting my hips, dragging the head of his cock across the sensitive ridge of flesh that nestles in my depths and I whimper, transformed, a rabbit hearted creature under his benevolent dominion.

The sounds of flesh on flesh echo through the room obscene in their luxuriance. A large thumb traces circles on my clit, engorged and flushed whilst tendrils of heat unfurl in my belly. I sway on the precipice of my orgasm, as I begin to spasm, and I am cast adrift, untethered and assailed by a thousand tiny earthquakes.  
Mouth slack, a perfect o as phosphenes bloom behind my eyes and I taste divinity in the piston of his hips. I chant his name to the darkening room. He grinds and fucks me through the ebb and flow of orgasm his muscles strung tight, features contorted, gilded with sweat. A final clench of my cunt and he moans my name brokenly, the sudden spill of sound intoxicating to my ears as he quickens and floods me with the warm spend of his release.

He collapses, eyes glassy, unable to support his weight in the aftershocks yet unwilling to leave a lovers embrace. I curl around his large frame like a sated cat, my hands skating each muscle, sinew and scar on his chest. I stroke my fingers through the soft curls of his chest hair, press my lips to the shell of his ear.

"Gods...that was incredible," he pants, slick with sweat. "You...are incredible.

He turns to face me, propping himself up on one elbow flustered and fucked out and oh so beautiful. I cup his face and he blushes fiercely, unused to tenderness, my touch a delicious torture. He marvels aloud at the fearless caress of my hand across his shattered visage. He is too ugly to love, he says. "My eyes are not defective, I like what I see. Do you not see how my body responds to you?", I tell him. He dips his head, presses his lips to my shoulder but doesn't answer the question.

The crackle and spit of the fire stirs something within him, deep within the dark places, the secret places of his heart. He sighs, it is a delicate sound, soft as a cat's foot fall, so unlike the rumbling landslide of his voice, shifting under my touch.

He speaks to me of a life filled with hardship and pain, gathering crumbs of affection from the whores brave enough to accept his coin. Witchers do not feel, he says but his flushed face and the lustre of his eyes tells me this is so unlike the hollow pantomime of love he finds in brothels. He pulls me close, inhales the scent of my hair, betrays himself once more in this tiny gesture. I could cry for him. He is magnificent, power tempered with a tender heart, a skilled lover, a kind man. I want to trace my runes of protection across his face. I kiss his eyelids, rest my head on his chest where the steady thrum of his pulse beats.

I tell him a tale of a woman, neither old nor young living deep in the forest where the ancient, forgotten things live. I tell him that I too, know the gnaw of loneliness in my marrow, the cold that etches into my bones at night. I press his hand to my lips and speak of a kind witcher with eyes the colour of whisky in sunlight, a striking, beautiful man whose touch makes my body sing. I tell him how he tastes on my tongue, how the scent of his arousal thrills me and how well he fucks me.

He growls low in his throat, fingers flexing at the curve of my hip, leaving tiny marks. I feel him growing hot and hard against my thigh and I giggle, for the appetites of witchers are legendary.

His lip twitches in a smile. "You tell good stories," he says, "but witchers don't die in their beds."

"Perhaps it is time they did".

I set two places at my table now and I never did knit that blanket.


End file.
